A Christmas Confrontation
by Harper64
Summary: A bit of Christmas Foyle Fluff, featuring a haircut and an angry woman!


Set at Christmas 1942, at the end of 'Bleak Midwinter'.

This is out of order in the F&F 'saga' but I couldn't resist. Merry Christmas, readers, enjoy and please send me a present ( a review would be nice).

.

**A Christmas Confrontation**

**.**

**24****th**** December 1942 **

**.**

DCS Foyle was smiling as he opened the front door late on Christmas Eve. He'd had a very good week. The problem of the confiscated turkey had been solved to everyone's satisfaction, especially Sam's, since she was getting to eat a share of it. Miner was proved innocent of the murder of his wife and had a much nicer young lady to share his Christmas with. And Foyle himself was about to spend his Christmas with the best company he could think of.

He could hear Frances in the kitchen; he hung up his hat and coat and, entering the kitchen, did a double take. Fran had had her hair cut – no, cropped, really short.

"Who is this lovely woman in my kitchen," he asked jokingly, "and what have you done with my wife?"

He expected a playful slap, a smile at the very least, but Frances just looked at him. She was obviously angry, red patches on her usually pale cheeks.

"Oh," he continued, "was it not what you'd asked for? Never mind, love, it suits you."

"It's exactly what I asked for, actually," answered Frances, her voice clipped.

"Then what's wrong, my love?" Christopher was puzzled.

"That's just the point, isn't it?" she stared at him, "I'm not your love, am I? You don't care about me at all."

His buoyant mood was dispelled in a wave of anger from his wife.

"What? Of course I care about you. You're the most precious …."

He didn't get to finish as Frances shouted him down, "Then it's about time you acted as if you did, you, you…" she struggled for an adjective to match her anger.

He stepped forward and held her arms, as he had done so many times before, "Fran, love, what…"

"Don't you touch me, you inconsiderate, thoughtless, selfish….." Her anger turned to tears, and she ran from the room, slamming the door behind her. He heard her steps on the stairs. He stood, stunned, in the kitchen.

Frances reappeared a few minutes later and, ignoring Christopher altogether, served a meal which was eaten in silence. As soon as he had finished she whipped his plate away and began noisily washing-up. He usually dried as she washed and he picked up the tea-towel, only to have it snatched from his hand. He escaped into the living room until she was finished, working his way through the past few days in an attempt to find anything that could have been misconstrued as 'not caring'.

Frances came into the room; her anger seemed to have abated somewhat.

"Frances, what have I done? Whatever it is I'm sorry," he decided that he would assume the guilt, anything to get her talking to him again.

"Are you going to the Midnight Service?" she asked unexpectedly.

"I was going to, but if you want me to stay I'll…"

"No, go. Just don't wake me when you come home. I'll be in the spare room," she spoke quietly, but there was still ice in her voice. She walked from the room; he heard her footsteps on the stairs

"Goodnight, love," Christopher called, but she was gone.

.

.

It was a cold and foggy walk from the church and Christopher was glad to get back into the warm house, despite the frosty reception he knew was waiting for him. True to her word, Frances was not in their bed. He changed into his pyjamas and slipped between the cold sheets, but he could not sleep. 'Never go to sleep on an argument' had been a saying of his mother's and he determined that he would not.

Creeping downstairs, he made two cups of cocoa and put them on a tray, carried it upstairs. He knocked softly on the spare room door, but there was no answer. He went in anyway, to find Frances sitting in bed. By the low light of the bedside lamp he could see that her face was puffy from crying. He put the tray down and sat on the edge of the single bed, turned towards her.

"I'm sorry," he said gently, "I don't know what I've done but, whatever it is, I'm sorry."

To his surprise she threw herself into his arms, "No, I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that. I can't bear for us to argue, please, forgive me."

Her arms were around him, lifting his pyjama top, stroking his back. He nuzzled her neck, warily, in case she should change her mind, but she was undoing her own flannelette top, pressing her bare breasts against his chest. His arm reached around her, pulling her even closer. Her nipples were hard against him, her body so warm, inviting...

"Oh Fran, I love you so much," he whispered, "I'd never do anything to upset you."

She was kneeling on the bed now, her hands exploring inside his trousers, pulling them down onto his hips, freeing him from the fabric, stroking him …

"And I need you, my love…," her voice was husky with desire, her legs parting, the smell of her making him even more aroused.

He pulled her onto him, entering her without any hesitation, kissing her urgently, roughly. The bed edge threatened to slide them off so he stood, her legs wrapped around his body, her arms around his neck. He sat her on the bed and stood in front of her. He began to kiss her again, her hands in his hair pulling his lips harder against hers. He could feel her legs opening wider; her body straining to find him, her hands moving to the small of his back to pull him in. He was rigid now, harder than ever before, stretched to his limit.

"Please, love, please….." Fran could feel the pulsing sensation beginning to overwhelm her, was desperate to feel him inside her.

Unable to wait any longer, he entered her again, her desperation arousing him more than ever, plunging as deeply as he could. She gasped with pleasure, he repeated the manoeuvre, felt her clamp her legs around him to prevent him withdrawing again.

"Oh, God, yes, my love, harder," she cried out, her muscles gripping him almost painfully, her arms around his neck.

He complied, thrusting into her as hard as he could; an unstoppable burst of shorter, faster lunges leading him to the spasms of release. He gasped as he throbbed ecstatically and repeatedly. She was seconds behind him; he felt the contractions of her muscles tightening around him as she cried out rapturously.

.

.

Frances clung to him, "Christopher, promise me you'll never leave. I couldn't go on without you."

"Of course I'll never leave you, my love," he assured her, "Whatever has brought this on?"

"I don't want to argue again," she said, not letting him move.

"Well, can't really argue since I don't know what's going on," Christopher stroked her cropped hair, smelled the hair lacquer from the hairdressers. A spark ignited in his mind. He pulled away and stirred the now cool cocoa, offered her a cup.

"Please, Fran, tell me why you were so upset. What did you hear?" he asked her.

"I went to have my hair cut today," she began, "but there'd been a mix-up and they couldn't fit me in. On the way home I noticed another salon and thought I'd try there. They'd had a cancellation and so I got it done."

Christopher had already guessed where this story was going.

"The woman asked my name and, when I told her, she asked if I was related to 'that nice policeman, Mr Foyle'. When I said yes, I was treated to a blow-by-blow account of how you," she poked him hard, "you, and just you, confronted a man with explosives who was planning to blow up the safe next door. I sat and listened as she told me how he'd thrown the flask of explosives on the floor intending to blow up himself _and you_."

Her voice was shaking now, "She said to me, 'I'm not ashamed to tell you, dear, I was so scared when he threw that bottle, I nearly wet myself.'"

She looked at him, "Can you imagine how that felt? What were you thinking of, you stupid, stupid man? What would I have done if you had been blown to smithereens?"

This last image was too much and she began to cry again.

"I was doing my job, Fran," Christopher answered calmly and honestly. "And I knew there wasn't explosive in that flask. If there had have been it would have gone off much sooner when he was swilling it around."

"Oh, so being blown up accidently would be different to being blown up deliberately, would it? Well it feels no different to me. Please, Christopher, never do anything as dangerous as that again, please. Promise me."

"I can't promise love, but I do promise to be more, um, careful about who I confront alone. Is that good enough?" he kissed the top of her head which was resting on his chest.

"No, but I'm not getting any other assurances, am I, DCS Foyle?" she sighed.

"Afraid not, love," he answered.

They were silent for a moment.

Then, to his surprise she smiled, "Mmm, but I might get angry with you more often, just for the experience of making up. That was very impressive. "

He flushed with pleasure, "Happy Christmas, sweetheart."

oooooOOOOOooooo


End file.
